


As of Honey

by glibli



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, POV Multiple, See notes for content warnings, Timeline What Timeline, but not now bc they're kiddos, there's shippy stuff later, this is really just a story about growing from trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glibli/pseuds/glibli
Summary: (AU where the timeline is ahead of canon and both Geralt and Jaskier have received witcher training. Please read the notes!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Just Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before I try to explain myself, let me start by saying that this fic mostly has to do with video game/book lore, just so you're aware. But I do adore the characterization in the TV adaptation so we're gonna stick with that.
> 
> So, alright, this is a massive divergence from canon but what if…hear me out…Kaer Morhen was sacked before Geralt ever got there? This fic is like, an AU where the Witcher Schools were kind of annihilated and “unified” by humans/mages in an effort to garner more political leverage in wartimes (Cat School betrayal and King Radowit II whom?). Basically, there’s only one School left that’s sort of a patchwork of witcher techniques and schooling (because humans don’t know what they’re doing). It’s like a windmill for producing more “mutant children” and the witchers who occupied and taught there previously were forced to secede, die, or be imprisoned.
> 
> Also, the timeline kind of jump-started forward. And, because I am deathly sick of the Witcher canon and wanted to amp things up, my ADD ass was like, okay, so the unified Schools are basically like, a fucked-up orphanage/experimentation lab, so people who didn’t really want their kids would either give their children to them or the Schools and the humans there would find them. And then, I thought, oh, whose parents didn’t like them in canon? Well, everybody’s, but also Jaskier’s. So Jaskier’s a smol witcher-in-training, and hates it. And Geralt is the unwanted child of Queen Calanthe. Sorry, hopefully it'll make more sense later.
> 
> And I feel it very important to note that NO CHILDREN DIE. I repeat, NO CHILDREN DIE. Adults die, but that’s it. I refuse to kill off children. Adults are fine tho. There are content warnings for physical abuse, transphobia, and gore, so scroll to the end if you want descriptions of those.
> 
> Also, terfs, hands-the-fuck-off. Some kiddos are trans. Get over it.
> 
> I'm so sorry for the extremely long note, but thank you for sticking around so far. I hope you enjoy!! :)

“What’re you singing now?”

“I dunno, I just made it up. You like it?”

“It’s alright.” The other boy, the one with pale hair, shifted against the stone wall. His sword, which he had leaned at his side, scraped a little as it teetered precariously. “I liked the one you sang yesterday better, though.”

Julian hummed a little bit, both stung and flattered that this boy remembered what he had composed the day prior. He scratched at a fresh cut on his freckled cheek. “The one about the countess?”

“Yeah,” said the pale-haired boy. He laughed quietly. “I liked — I liked when you called her a harpy without any feathers.”

They both broke into stifled giggles, then shushed each other.

“How long do you think before they find us?” Julian asked, straightening to a crouch and peering over the top of the small outcropping of crumbling stone where they had taken shelter. His companion caught his sword just before it toppled over. Luckily, Julian’s was still strapped to his back and only clinked a little before he reached back and stilled it.

“Probably soon,” said the other boy. “We’re really breaking the rules, and they _always_ know when _I_ misbehave.”

“My ma always knew when I misbehaved, too,” admitted Julian, slumping back down. He leaned to whisper in his friend’s ear. “You know, I sang that song yesterday about _her_.” He covered his mouth to ease the volume of his laughter.

The other boy just looked at him, awestruck. A strand of hopelessly golden hair shifted into his eyes like it belonged there, obscuring his brown irises. It suddenly struck Julian how nice-looking this boy was. Were boys allowed to be nice-looking?

“I could never call my mother a harpy without feathers,” his companion said wonderingly.

Julian tilted his head. “Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Well,” the other boy said, fidgeting uncomfortably, “she would’ve known, wouldn’t she? She’s the queen, she knows everything.”

“Wait, you’re a _prince_?” Julian asked in a stage-whisper. His companion shushed him with the hand that wasn’t propping his sword up.

“Not anymore,” said the other boy curtly. “She gave me up, didn’t like me enough to keep me.” He drew his knees and rested his chin on top of their peeks. “I'm not fit to be royalty. Not fit for the Lioness of Cintra.”

“That’s bullshit,” Julian said sympathetically. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and was faintly surprised when he didn't draw away from the touch. Most of the children rounded up by the Witcher Schools had grown absolutely adverse to touch, save for Julian himself. But this other boy seemed to, remarkably, _lean_ into Julian until their shoulders rested against each other. Julian drew away before he could think better of it, not liking the feeling of this other boy seeking out more contact, even if he’d initiated it himself. The other turned to look at him, and Julian patted lightly on his shoulder, not knowing what to do.

“Your ma’s an idiot if she thought you weren’t good enough to be her son,” continued Julian, ignoring how tight his throat felt. He raised his arms. “You’re _so good_ at training and dodging and even _alchemy_ ,” he said, gesticulating as he gathered steam. “Everyone is so pushy with you because they know you’re better than the rest of us.”

The other boy squinted at him dubiously, and Julian shrugged. The other boy sighed. “I just wish…” he whispered, lowering his head back down behind his knees, “...I just wish my mother had loved me enough to — to keep me. I miss my home and…I w-wish she liked me.”

His shoulders shook a little then, and Julian pretended not to notice. He also pretended not to notice how wet the other’s boy’s voice sounded.

Julian didn’t know what to say. The sword between them was clenched tightly in his companion’s hand, his knuckles ashen as his hair. Julian did the only thing he could think of and wrapped both his arms around the boy’s shoulders. His sword dug into his shoulder blades and the strap keeping it in place chafed his neck a bit, but he didn’t care. He closed his eyes, and the other boy tensed beneath him, but didn’t push him away.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked quietly, muffled underneath two layers of assorted limbs.

“I’m — I’m hugging you?” Julian said uncertainly. “You looked like you wanted a hug. Is it not helping?”

“No, I — I like it. Thanks.” The other boy reached up with one arm and fastened it around Julian’s bicep. The fabric of their tunics whispered between them. Julian smiled into the boy’s shoulder.

“We’re friends now,” Julian pointed out.

“Okay,” the boy agreed softly.

“What’s your name?”

“Does it matter? They don’t call us by names.”

“Now that we’re friends, it matters.”

The boy hesitated. “It’s…Geralt.”

“I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Okay,” Geralt said again. He nestled his head into Julian’s armpit and sniffled. “Can you sing to me now that we’re friends?”

“Yeah,” Julian said warmly. No one had actually _asked_ him to sing before. He hummed a little, trying out different songs until he thought of one that Geralt might like.

He then began a ballad that his mother used to sing to him when he was very small, before she had decided what Julian ought to be. As he grew up, his brothers began to sing it to him after his mother deemed him too old to be sung to sleep. Julian didn’t know the lyrics all that well — they weren’t in the common tongue, maybe even Elven for all he knew — but it seemed to soothe Geralt. When Julian didn’t know the words exactly, or their sounds, he mouthed around the melody. His voice trembled a little when Geralt let more of his weight sift against Julian’s arms and sighed.

“ _...Utuna ulos menisin,_

_Savuna pihalle saisin,_

_Kipunoina kiiättäisin,_

_Liekkinä lehauttaisin;_

_Vierren vierehen menisin,_

_Supostellen suun etehen…_ ”

The melody washed over his throat like warm honey, soothing the hours beforehand that both he and Geralt had spent training and yelling in exertion. It was nice to have a friend, someone to hold against him after a year of the brutal life inside the walls of the unified Witcher Schools.

Idly, Julian wondered what it would be like to have a companion on the outside, once they’d completed whatever it was that they were training for. Their teachers had talked about mutagens, organisms that they had begun to siphon into the students. They had also talked about more dangerous ones that would live inside them and enhance their bodies, if they proved themselves worthy. Julian frowned a little at the thought. He didn’t think it likely that he’d be chosen for that. He just didn’t have the necessary skills, as he was constantly reminded of by the reprimands of the adults and days in solitary confinement when he misbehaved. “Poor impulse control” and "lack of fundamental focus" is what the adults around him remarked. He’d already undergone some mutations, sure, the ones that had sped up his healing, that had strengthened him beyond the abilities of ordinary children. But he had undergone none of the important ones, the ones that would surely kill him. None of the Trials.

Geralt would, though. Without a doubt.

Julian hugged him closer.

“Hey, you two!” an adult’s voice shouted. Both Julian and Geralt flinched. Geralt’s sword dropped immediately and landed on the stone with a ferocious clatter. Julian’s song shattered between them. They jumped back from each other.

“Answer me!” the adult — their fencing instructor — commanded as he rounded the corner of the wall Julian and Geralt had hidden behind. They both leapt to their feet and bowed their heads.

“Yessir,” they mumbled.

Their instructor tsked and snatched at Julian’s shoulder, yanking him away. “This is the seventh time you’ve shirked training, you little whelp. Lashings it is, then, and the grandmaster will be hearing about your continued disobedience.”

“What about me?” Geralt asked bravely, squaring his shoulders. Julian breathed through a rush of affection in the older man’s grasp. “I left practice, too — why aren’t you punishing me?”

“Don’t talk back to me, boy,” the instructor said in a low voice, leaning over Geralt. “Just feel lucky the administration of this school thinks you’re special. If they didn’t, you’d sure as hell join your friend.”

“If they thought I was special, they wouldn’t have stuck me with you.”

Julian watched Geralt’s hands, gloved from sword-training, flex and ball into fists. He watched Geralt’s pupils narrow and burrow into the umber around them. Vaguely, Julian heard a humming from beneath the instructor’s vest, and only just noticed the older man raise his hand.

The impact of their instructor’s ringed knuckles on Geralt’s cheek rang against the stone. Geralt fell to the ground, holding his face as blood sputtered between his fingers. Julian struggled against his instructor, spitting with rage as the older man strengthened his hold on him.

“You hit my friend!” Julian hissed. “You’ll pay for that!”

The instructor rounded on him, eyes — not a witcher’s, gray as steel — glinting savagely. “I have had it with you lot, boy, _especially_ you.”

“Good, then get rid of me, you — you _cunt_!” Julian said. The instructor’s face twisted like an oak’s trunk, and for the first time, Julian felt fear prick at his stomach. Truth be told, he didn’t know what that last word meant, but he’d heard an older trainee at supper use it and everyone on their side of the table went quiet. So it had to be nasty. Good.

Julian stood up straighter, as straight as he could while being manhandled like a kitten. “Get rid of me, and then I can go _home_ ,” he said, baring his teeth.

“Oh, you’re not going home,” the older man said quietly. He then dragged Julian away, taking away his sword as they went, as Julian struggled to get in a blow. After a few minutes, however, it seemed pointless to fight back. He opted for the pettier option of being as difficult to lug as possible, and flopped against the instructor’s grip like a deboned fish. His captor grunted angrily as Julian’s limp feet scraped across the grass. Julian took the chance to glance back at Geralt, who remained within eyesight.

Geralt had recovered somewhat and stood, watching the proceedings with wide eyes, one hand eclipsing the right side of his face. Fear softened the face that was too young to be a witcher’s and too steely to be a true child’s. Julian fought to keep his eyes devoid of tears. He didn’t know where their instructor was taking him, but it couldn’t be good.

* * *

It was a few weeks before Geralt saw the singing boy again. In the meantime, one of the higher-ups of the School had sought Geralt out during alchemy. The cut from one of the fencing instructor’s rings hadn’t quite healed yet. A healer had given him stitches.

“You’ve been chosen,” the higher-up told him in the hall just outside of the alchemy room. They had black hair that ruffled like crows’ feathers and their blue eyes glinted in the torchlight. Geralt shrank against the wall. “You and nine other children have demonstrated an excellent capacity to withstand genetic enhancements. You all will undergo the Trial of the Grasses, so you may advance your training.”

Geralt’s vision tilted at the words.

There weren’t many witchers that had both survived and bowed to the will of the captors of Kaer Morhen, but the ones who remained spoke of the times before in hushed tones, too low for a human to hear. Not quietly enough for an apprentice like Geralt to miss. They spoke of the trainees, the children destined to either die or advance on their Path. The Trial of the Grasses would decide. It didn’t matter your abilities or your obedience: the Trial of the Grasses chose its vessel on the whim of seemingly destiny itself. Geralt clenched his fists.

“Come with me, lad,” said the higher-up.

Geralt didn’t have a choice, that much was clear. He could smell the tang of magic in the air, running along the edges of the adult’s words. They led Geralt through the corridor and up so many flights of stairs that Geralt nearly fainted from the combined terror and exertion. The higher-up didn’t look back — if they noticed Geralt struggling, they didn’t comment on it.

“In here, there you go,” they said, and promptly ushered Geralt into a dimly-lit room burgeoning with glinting bottles, vials, and other baubles oozing almost comically-bright green liquid. The second the adult’s magic faded from the air, Geralt rounded on them, but too late. The door had shut silently behind him and the higher-up had left him alone. Geralt shivered and rubbed at his arms. At some point, an older trainee had given Geralt some spare scraps of wool to tie to his forearms because for some reason — likely due to his size — he found the chill of the School’s stone walls unbearable. Up in the higher levels, it was worse. He could hear the wind moaning just past the wall. Silently, he sat on the floor and thanked the gods for the lack of a window, and thanked the older trainee for the wool. Then he cursed the cold.

Not that it would matter. Not that any of that mattered. He would die the moment an adult tied him up and gave him the Grasses.

He looked around fearfully. He seemed to be alone for now, but he also couldn’t see a place where a student would be strapped or held down for the Trial. Would it happen here? Would they test him in here, or another room?

After a moment, the rustle of footsteps down the hall drew him to attention. He straightened his back against the wall and listened, every mite of his enhanced hearing trained on the sound. It was more than one person, and one of them was much lighter than the other. Geralt cocked his head and squinted. A child?

“Alright, wait in here,” said an adult voice, higher-pitched than that of the one who had steered him to this room. “There’s already another boy in there to keep you company.” Aha, it _was_ another trainee. Geralt watched the door anxiously.

Once the door cracked open at last, a dark-haired child about his height with a stocky build stumbled into the room as though he’d been pushed. Geralt immediately ran over as the door closed once more and seized the child’s shoulders before they could topple over onto the cold stone. Sharp blue eyes met his, and a lightly-freckled face cracked into a wide smile.

“It’s you!” Julian cried, flinging his arms around Geralt.

“Julian?” asked Geralt, still processing. “You’re alright! I thought they’d done something awful to you.” He finally wrapped his arms around the other boy, but Julian flinched and tensed.

“Oh, sorry,” Geralt said, letting go. He thought Julian had liked being hugged, but maybe he’d been wrong. “Are you okay?”

“They uh, whipped me,” said Julian, letting go of Geralt so he could sit on the ground. Geralt followed suit as Julian adjusted his shirt so it didn’t cling to his back. “It…still hurts.”

“Oh,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

They both fell silent, listening to the clambering of the wind outside. Julian cleared his throat. “I can’t believe they chose me, too,” he whispered. “I’ve seen you in training, I knew — I knew they’d choose you, but I thought…I didn’t have what they were looking for. That's what they kept telling me.”

Another bout of silence breathed between them. “Do you think we’ll die?” Julian asked, even softer still. “I heard some older witchers talking about the Trial. They said we’d almost all die, but do you think so?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

“Will you finish the song?” Geralt asked.

“Huh?”

“The one you didn’t finish singing a few weeks ago, when we were hiding from practice.”

“Oh! Yeah, okay,” Julian said diffidently. “But, do you think a grown-up will come and hear? I don’t want to get you in trouble again.”

“We might…die today,” Geralt said slowly.

Julian laughed manically for a moment. Geralt cracked a smile. “That’s true,” Julian consented. Then he sang.

Julian’s voice, small and wavering though it was, filled every inch of the room where strange green liquids didn’t bubble with little, stumbling, lilting notes. For a brief, lovely moment, all that existed was that song. Two witchers-in-training who weren’t quite human were really just children.

After Julian finished the song, Geralt held his hand and they sat in silence. After awhile, another trainee showed up, one Geralt didn’t recognize. Another followed, and another and another, until there were ten children total clustered and shivering in the cramped space. Geralt and Julian leaned toward each other as the trainees all stared at each other. The youngest one couldn’t have been older than nine; the oldest, no more than twelve. All of their eyes whirred eerily with green from the potions.

There came soft footsteps outside, and all of the children flinched. One of them whimpered before being hushed by another student. Tears glistened in more than one pair of eyes.

Julian hid his face in Geralt’s shoulder.

The door slid open and torchlight from the hallway outside shivered across them all. The adult who entered was clearly human, but sizzled at the edges with Chaos. Their robes folded around their form like how a swan tucks its wings. They gestured to a child with dark curly hair with a single finger.

“This way, lass,” the human said. The tone wasn’t unkind, but how could it be anything but? They were likely leading this child to their death. The child wiped at their eyes and followed the adult through the doorway. Julian shivered.

“I liked her,” Julian said quietly against Geralt’s ear. “She snuck me extra food when I was in solitary. She was — was so nice.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said a burly child across from them. “She might live. Don’t talk like that.”

Brutal silence settled around them and stayed. Until it didn’t.

Geralt would never forget that scream. Never. Even through the stone walls, it ricocheted viciously around them, echoing its terror off of every face. Many children tried to cover their ears, but more children than that began to rock violently back and forth. A child with dark brown skin vomited as another tried to console them and stroked their forehead.

Julian began to cry. Geralt shut his eyes and held on to the other boy.

It seemed an eternity before the wails ceased at last. It was even longer than that before the same adult human returned and opened the door once more.

“Is she alive?” Julian asked the human, tears caked to his cheeks. “Did she pass?”

The human just looked at him, then turned to Geralt. They extended their index finger.

“No!” Julian yelled, blue eyes shocked and wide. “You won’t take him! Please! He’s good!” He scrambled to his feet once Geralt had. Geralt’s gaze remained glued to the adult’s single, beckoning finger.

“Then he has nothing to fear,” was all the adult said.

It wasn’t comforting.

The moment the human pulled him away from Julian and forced their hands apart, Geralt lost all sense of the events unfolding. He walked down the hall after the human, through a door not five steps from that of the room prior. This room was much bigger. A vaulted ceiling arched above them, curving above a wooden table with leather straps and glinting metal buckles. The child with the curly hair had been removed from the operation table and lay on some furs at the far end of the chamber. They were surrounded by a ring of adults. All members of the School’s administration were here.

“Her heartbeat is slow, but strong,” Geralt could hear one of them saying.

“She’s covered in sweat.”

“Comatose state for a human.”

“Her pupils have narrowed.”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped, and he nearly sighed with relief. The child would live. They had passed.

But that also meant that the odds weren’t stacked in the remaining children’s favor. Only three were likely to survive.

The adult human who had led Geralt gripped his elbow and tugged him forth. Geralt’s feet dragged as he stared, transfixed, at the throng of people across the room. One of the adults straightened and turned to regard Geralt. They were tall, with white hair, a white beard, and amber cat’s eyes. A witcher. The gold of their gaze softened like butter upon Geralt as he was pulled toward the table. The child on the furs stirred behind them.

“Please,” Geralt whispered. It wasn’t loud enough for the adults to hear, but the older witcher could certainly hear it. They bowed their pale head and turned away. Geralt still stared at them as he approached the wooden table and was lifted upon it by his captor and another adult who had been waiting to the side, one person lifting his back, the other his hips. “Please.”

“Lay back,” said the other adult who had raised him onto the platform. Not waiting for Geralt to comply, they put a hand on Geralt’s chest, just below his collarbone. Geralt flinched. They pushed him back and wrapped the leather about his arms, then his torso, then each of his legs.

There was no taste of magic upon the air, but Geralt remained motionless and pliable. There were too many adults in the room to fight, even for a genetically-enhanced child. The witcher at the other end of the room on their own would be more than enough force to keep Geralt at bay, no matter how kindly they had looked at him.

Once he was strapped, Geralt closed his eyes. He couldn’t find it within himself to cry. He was beyond tears. He could hear, however, as the adult human to his left strode to a side table. The clinking of glass against glass and the murmur of liquid sloshing quietly served as the portents of his impending sentence. He kept his eyes shut. His limbs trembled, betraying him.

Something pricked his arm. He squirmed, then lay still as the Grasses entered his body.

At first, his mouth seemed sutured shut as something grave and heavy and absolutely _monstrous_ swelled within him like a storm. He had no bones, no voice, no organs. He could not feel the wood of the table or taste his own saliva. All he was, had ever been, was this pain: the furious, awakened rage of his body as each of his nerves were set, one by one, ablaze. The monster they had set loose within him peeled his veins apart, dug into his chest, paraded up his throat and out into a gruesome wail.

But the scream was much louder than it should have been.

Glass breaking, shards hitting the ground, the shocked yells of the adults all augmented the noise roaring through the room. Geralt’s mouth remained open, wider than he had thought it possible to be. Not that he was thinking about that. Not that he could _think_. He was this pain, nothing more.

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

Nothing.

Geralt only noticed that he had stopped screaming when his ears ceased to ring with its volume. His mouth hung open. Only a small whimper crawled from behind his tongue when someone undid the buckles of his bindings. The wool around his forearms had kept his wrists from chafing, but his ankles were rubbed raw.

“What the _fuck_ ,” said a quavering voice, rumbling at the edges, “are you, boy?”

Geralt felt a face lean towards his own. He couldn’t explain how he knew — he couldn’t open his eyes to see — but he _felt_ someone very near. He could hear their heartbeat, slow and sure as the sun across the sky. Whoever it was sat him up, holding his back as Geralt retched to the side of the table, eyes still screwed shut. He could feel some liquid, possibly blood, trickling over his eyelids. It almost tickled. He tried to wipe the substance away, but a hand stilled him.

He’d passed the Trial of the Grasses. He was alive. He’d passed.

“Boy, answer me!” said the voice. It didn’t sound angry or punitive, but scared. Because of that, it landed harder on his ears. Geralt had never heard an adult sound scared before. If he’d felt any triumph at passing the Trial, it fled quickly as a hind. “What are you?”

At long last, Geralt found himself able to open his eyes. It took him a long moment for his eyes to adjust; the room surely hadn’t been this bright before, had it? He blinked slowly a couple of times, then promptly toppled to the side. Another wave of nausea swept over him as he saw the room.

Blood, so much blood, smeared across the stone floor, prickling strangely with the light emanating from the many potion vials around the room. All the torches had blown out, and Geralt could only just make out the outlines of the adults on the floor. They were limp as dolls. Their eyes were open and luridly glassy. A great many eye sockets, mouths, and ears oozed blood sluggishly.

The person who had helped Geralt sit up pulled him gently upright once more and stared at him. Their pale hair glinted like candlelight, and their eyes seemed to shine in the gloom — this was the older witcher who had looked at him pityingly. Geralt swallowed. His body shook all over. Something within him wanted to hatch.

“W-what hap-happened?” Geralt choked. He could barely speak.

The other child who had survived the Trial stirred at the other end of the room. At least they were alive. Geralt could hear their breath flutter into the air thick with the metallic scent of violence.

The older witcher knelt before Geralt, still looking him in the eye. They appeared to waver like a mirage, and Geralt struggled to keep them in focus. He felt faint, and was very aware that only the witcher’s grip was keeping him vertical.

“Why did your mother give you up, lad?” they asked softly. Geralt just peered at them like a fish, eyes wide. The witcher rubbed the bridge of their nose. “I know it’s a strange question, but I need to know, alright? Why did Queen Calanthe give you up?”

Geralt swallowed again. His throat was impossibly dry.

“She — she wanted me to be a princess. But I’m not a girl. She thinks I am, but — but I'm not.”

The witcher’s face didn’t move, but Geralt heard his very slow heartbeat increase in speed. Geralt tensed still further on the tabletop.

“May the gods have mercy,” the witcher said quietly. “You’re a carrier.”

They laid their other hand on Geralt’s shoulder as his head lulled threateningly to the side. His head felt full of sand, and every motion pitched his momentum hither and thither like a tipping hourglass. The witcher bent their head until they were at eye-level, studying him carefully. Their voice was low and terrified.

“You possess Elder Blood.”

That was all Geralt heard before he tilted forward and passed out cold in the witcher’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW descriptions:
> 
> \- A child is hit by an adult.  
> \- A child is whipped for disobedience (this isn't described, but talked about).  
> \- Children undergo painful genetic mutations.  
> \- Several adults die viciously.  
> \- A child is revealed to have been given up on transphobic grounds.
> 
> Here's the wiki page on Elder Blood if you want to glance at it: [link.](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Elder_Blood)
> 
> Also, the song little Jaskier sings is the Finnish folksong [Kun Mun Kultani Tulisi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbLM1aedbCE) bc it's pretty :) and might be relevant later but who's to say. Also that's where the title came from!! :D
> 
> Tumblr: [glibli](https://glibli.tumblr.com/)


	2. After Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little Jask plays detective with a new accomplice. Geralt meets another magic-user.
> 
> content warnings for this chapter include: brief physical abuse, and mentions of past physical abuse. see end of chapter for content warning descriptions!! and thank you for reading :)

Geralt was the last child of the Witcher Schools to undergo the Trial of the Grasses, to the combined shock and relief of the School’s students. However, Julian still couldn't find out why. All he knew was that something went very, _horribly_ wrong when Geralt was strapped and tested.

After the screaming had begun, he had attempted to open the door to try to get to his friend, but found it locked. All of the other children were still until they all heard the clamor of shattering glass and sickening thuds.

The next thing they knew, there was silence. And then an older witcher came to fetch them.

The witcher didn’t tell them a single thing, only to get back to their rooms. No one else was to undergo the Trial that day.

Julian couldn’t find out why. But not for lack of trying.

Every adult he could find and ask about the Trial either threatened him with solitary again or ignored him altogether. But judging by the malaise and the whisperings behind shut doors, something gruesome had indeed happened. Every adult confirmed his worst fears. He began to spot more and more witchers around the keep, talking louder than perhaps they would have done under normal circumstances. He caught snatches of their conversations sometimes, on the way to practices or meals. He quickly became very skilled at eavesdropping — it seemed the only real use for the genetically-enhanced hearing, if you asked him. He never once heard Geralt mentioned directly, but plenty else that failed to put him at ease.

“...what he said…Something’s brewing…”

“...died, all of them…Vesemir saw…not saying more than that.”

“...free more of them…in the cells.”

“...child has powerful magic…Trust humans to miss something like that.”

The instructors took the events hard, and, in turn, took that out on the students. It wasn’t uncommon for more than one student per practice or lesson to be sent to the cells for punishment for the rest of the day.

About three months after the failed Trials, when Julian inevitably incurred said punishment, he got tossed in alongside another child — about fourteen, three years older than he — with wild, dark brown hair and steely eyes. He’d seen her in practice before — she seemed to be favored by the instructors on account of her brutal speed in combat, but had a nasty habit of talking back to them. Like Julian himself.

He eyed her through the bars, considering. She stared right back, picking at her teeth with a grubby pinky finger. Her eyes had the trademark slit pupils that went with heavy genetic enhancements, but he hadn’t heard the instructors mention her passing the Trial of the Grasses. She must have attained them some other way. Another Trial, maybe. Julian frowned at her. The girl’s pupils dilated as she settled in a shadowy corner of her cell, still scraping at her front teeth. She honestly reminded him more of a cat then the wolves or snakes older witchers loved to compare the children to.

“Who’re you, then?” Julian asked, pacing restlessly to and fro across the stone floor.

The other trainee didn’t answer. She switched from her teeth to her nose. Julian wrinkled his own. He silently marked this student as a lost cause, and turned away, humming to himself with his hands clasped behind his back. It helped him think, and he’d found himself with quite a lot to think about as of late, Geralt and the circumstances of his disappearance at the top of the list.

“The hell are you so fidgety about?” the girl asked. Her voice rang sharp and scuffed at the edges, like she’d stomped on glass. Julian’s gaze flicked back to her. “You remind me of my mother’s pet bird.”

Julian scrunched his brow and pointedly didn’t answer. He continued to pace. The girl released a very long, very loud sigh that Julian could have sworn buffeted the torches outside her cell.

“Gods, will you _please_ stop?” she asked, rubbing her face and rolling dramatically onto her side.

“No,” Julian said flatly, turning on his heel once he’d reached the other end. “It helps me think, and a mystery needs solving. Not that you’d care.”

The girl scoffed and sat up again. “I love mysteries,” she said.

Julian raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, like how his mother would to look extra unimpressed.

“Is it about the Trial of the Grasses?” asked the other trainee. Julian froze.

“How did you know?”

“It’s all anyone’s talking about,” the girl said simply, standing to walk to the bars. “Or _not_ talking about, rather,” she corrected herself, tilting her head and holding her feet pressed together. “Also, you were going to be tested, weren’t you?”

“Well, it’s not just about the Trial,” said Julian, resuming his stride. “It’s about my friend. But I’m not telling you more unless you tell me your name.” There, that seemed reasonable. Information for information.

The other girl groaned, leaning her face against the metal. “ _Fine_. It’s Renfri. I’m only telling you because I’m curious now.”

Julian grinned. “Hey, I’ve heard about you,” he said. Renfri rolled her eyes and turned her back on Julian, who proceeded to press his advantage. “They call you Shrike, don’t they?”

“Most people would find that intimidating,” Renfri remarked austerely.

Julian, young as he was, knew a bluff when he heard one. “Why would I?” he said brightly. “It means that I have dirt on you if you tell on me.”

Renfri bared her teeth. “You’re a nasty child, I can see why your parents gave you up,” she retorted viciously.

“I’m not the one who _stabs_ people.”

“Self defense,” Renfri said quickly, eyes hard. Before Julian could retort, she added, “You know my name, tell me your information.”

“Oh, right,” said Julian. He’d almost forgotten. It’d been fun to tease someone who wasn’t a human adult. “My friend Geralt was the last to be tested and he’s…missing.”

“Or dead,” Renfri interrupted.

“He’s not dead,” Julian snapped.

“How do you know, starling?” said Renfri. Julian glared at her.

“Because,” he said, “I’ve heard the witchers talking about him. It didn’t sound like he died — he’s still alive, and I’m going to find him.”

“You,” Renfri said, extricating a burr from a tangled patch of her hair. “ _You_ , and what army?”

“Look,” Julian said, properly annoyed, “I don’t know what exactly happened in the Trial room, but…it was big. Geralt didn’t die, but other people did. I think the witchers are planning something.”

“Oh,” Renfri breathed, tapping her knees excitedly. And _she’d_ chastised Julian for being restless. “ _Oh_ , this is wonderful, I hope we can get out of here while those geezers kill each other off.”

“And it’ll give me a chance to find Geralt,” Julian said.

“Right.” Renfri drew out the word carefully, examining it as it slipped past her lips. Her pupils narrowed, and Julain huffed indignantly.

“You don’t think I can do it?” he asked. “I’m no — I’m not bad at fighting, even if I’m not the most _focused_ or—”

“Oh, shut up,” Renfri said. “That’s not what I mean.” Julian warmed despite himself — that felt suspiciously like a compliment. “It’s just,” Renfri continued, “if your friend Geralt is alive, and responsible somehow for the incident you’re talking about then…wouldn’t they keep him under guard or something? That’s likely why he’s missing in the first place.”

Julian scrunched his nose. He hadn’t considered that as a possibility. “Hmm,” he murmured, resuming his pacing back and forth.

“You didn’t think of that, did you?” Renfri asked. He could hear the smirk in her voice, and very much did not appreciate it.

He began humming again while the older girl laughed to herself.

* * *

“Any leads, starling?” Renfri hissed in Julian’s ear, plopping her plate on the table so hard it rattled Julian’s silverware. She had somehow found Julian at supper a week later, and did _not_ seem to mind the supervising teacher rapping their eyeglasses against their palm threateningly. Julian rolled his eyes.

“Stop calling me that,” he exhaled, pushing his potatoes around his plate.

“Well, you didn’t give me your name, so what else am I to call you, starling?” Renfri asked before horking down her stew in a manner that Julian could only describe as…well, terrifying. She had a point, however.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he said very quietly, keeping an eye on their supervisor. They had moved away to reprimand some older students at another table, and thus didn’t hear him utter something as forbidden as a name. Not without witcher hearing. Renfri broke into a fit of giggles, nearly choking on a piece of beef and spewing half-chewed bits of stew like a volcano. Julian moved his plate cautiously away and frowned at Renfri.

“I am _not_ calling you that,” Renfri said. “It’s far too pretentious. You must be a noble.”

“I’m not noble here,” said Julian. “But I do like the idea of another name, if only for sneaking reasons. What would you call me, then?” He quickly added, “Not ‘starling,’ though.”

“I don’t know you well enough to name you,” Renfri informed him seriously. “What would you choose? They do say we’ll eventually need to pick a title when we’re done with training.”

Julian felt taken aback. “Oh! Well, how about something fun?” He smiled. “Something that would annoy the hell out of the grown-ups.”

Renfri snapped her fingers. “Daffodil!” she said. “Daffy!”

Julian smacked her shoulder. “Absolutely not, thank you very much,” he said. “Oh, but my cat was named after a flower, too.”

“Which one?”

“Which…what? Oh, flower. Dandelion.”

“Dandelion,” Renfri repeated dubiously. “Your cat’s name was Dandelion?”

“Yes,” Julian said, unfazed. “He used to eat them a lot, before he choked on one and died. It was very sad.”

Renfri raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Well, it’s better than ‘Julian Alfonze Prankbat.’ So I’ll call you Dandelion.”

Julian didn’t bother to correct her and shook his head. “Well, anyway, I haven’t heard a lot, mostly just the same. But I’m really worried about what’s going to happen. If Geralt’s been abducted by the grandmaster or something, then every minute he could be in more trouble.”

Renfri gnawed on a bit of bread thoughtfully. “I’ve done some digging myself on your friend. He was thought mute up until his disappearance, you know.”

“Really?” Julian asked, shocked. The instructor overseeing their meal had finished punishing the other cluster of children and Julian could feel her gaze on their necks. He lowered his voice while Renfri chewed, seemingly unaware or simply impervious. “He talked to me, quite a lot, actually.”

“He must have come out of his shell,” said Renfri. “Not that you _should_ be out of your shell in this place. That shit gets you killed.”

Renfri promptly pitched forward as the overseer knocked the back of her head. “Watch your mouth, lass,” they said. Renfri looked around and hissed at them, rubbing her neck, but the instructor ignored her and moved on to another table. If Renfri hadn’t been through genetic trials, the blow would have knocked her out. Julian touched her arm sympathetically, but she brushed it off and shook her head.

“I hope the keep gets overturned soon,” Renfri remarked darkly. “I don’t know how long I can take these humans without murdering them.”

“Hmm, there are less to murder now,” Julian said. “Geralt saw to that, I think.”

“Remind me to thank him,” Renfri muttered around a mouthful of stew. “And remind me to introduce you to my friends.”

Julian lowered his fork from his mouth. “Friends, you say?”

“I’ve been recruiting, as it were,” Renfri said. “Now I know you’re invested, I have been getting some witchlings together for when the School blows. You’re on the team, Dandelion.”

It didn’t seem like it was up for debate, but Julian had no qualms with that. “I like that, ‘witchlings,’” he giggled.

Renfri smirked at him. Her pupils narrowed as she considered him. “You’re…too pure to be a proper witcher, you know that?”

“Oh,” Julian laughed. “Oh, no I don’t think so.” The scars on his back throbbed dully, as if someone had chosen that moment to pluck them like stings, and send his melody thrumming along his spine. He shuddered and adjusted his seating. He didn’t want to hear whatever song his body wanted him to learn. “Not anymore, anyway.”

* * *

Triss Merigold woke up with a jolt, sweat beaded along her forehead like pearls. She touched her face, running her fingers down her freckled brown cheeks, and closing her eyes against the bitterly bright light from an open window. Promptly, a soft cooling feeling padded along her neck. If she had been cognizant enough to feel panic at the notion of an unknown person touching her, she’d have grabbed at the sensation. She found herself powerless, however, as the person continued to apply what felt like a wet towel to her burning skin.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” came a soft voice. Triss could hear their heartbeat. That was strange. “I was getting lonely in here, and my friend told me you’re nice.”

“Who…where’m I?” Triss croaked. She paused as the rag moved to her forehead. “You hurting me?”

“No,” the voice answered. “I promise. You’re in the administration wing.”

“Oh,” Triss murmured. She listened to the person’s heartbeat for a moment — it was so much slower than a normal one. A witcher, then? But the voice sounded young, belonging to a person almost her age, even. “You…in training?”

“Yes,” the other child said simply.

“Name? What…is it?”

“Geralt,” the child responded.

“‘M Triss…Merigold.”

“Sounds like the flower.” She could hear the smile in Geralt’s voice. She tried to smile back, but her mouth didn’t seem to want to move in the slightest. It only twitched, which would have to do.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “My favorite.”

“You named yourself?”

Triss nodded. Her neck ached viciously.

“I did, too.”

Triss steeled herself, breathing steadily, to open her eyes. Her eyelids responded slowly, as if they were offline, and only white blurry shapes poured between her eyelashes. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to regard the other child. He appeared to be sitting at the side of a bed, one she was currently laying on. The light undulated around his shoulders and face like honey being stirred. She blinked again, and she could make out that this child possessed the cat-like eyes that could only have been awarded by the Grasses, given his age. Shallow cuts had almost healed around each amber eye.

“Geralt’s a nice name,” Triss managed. Geralt smiled, too sadly for a child.

“Thanks,” he said.

They both existed in comfortable silence for a few moments as Triss covered her eyelids with her hands and Geralt wetted a fresh rag in a basin that must have been set at the foot of her bed. Once she had recovered slightly, Triss opened her eyes once more and regarded Geralt.

“Geralt,” she began softly. “What happened to me?”

Geralt tilted his head as he cleaned the used rag with a bar of soap. “You survived,” Geralt said slowly. “Both you and I passed the Trial of the Grasses.”

Triss’s brow furled. “I don’t remember…anything after being brought to a room full of other students.” Triss swallowed. “Just us two survived, Geralt?”

Geralt’s jaw worked silently, strands of his hair falling to tap along his nose one by one. “I was…the last student tested. I came after you.”

“Why were you the last?”

Geralt looked at her, eyes wide and shifting like golden coins being flipped for chance. This child was clearly worth more than this school had bargained on, Triss could tell. His hands shook, causing droplets from the rag to fall into the basin like little bells ringing against the wood. Triss hummed wordlessly, reaching out a hand, each finger lifted costing her far more effort than she would have expected. Geralt hesitated, then extended his own, head tilted in question. His caught hers and held it gently, as if it was a bird that had landed upon his palm. Something unnamed, unseen, and unwanted by this witcher-in-training flicked back and forth at the fringe of his skin. Triss’s eyes opened further, and Geralt flinched but didn’t draw away.

“You have magic, don’t you?” Triss asked quietly.

Geralt bit his lip and looked away, nodding once. “Lost control,” was the answer.

Triss swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry her throat was. She’d never met another since her conduit moment, which had come and passed like a star to wish on, only for her. She hadn’t seen fit to share it with anyone, but knew from the raw honesty in Geralt’s shame that she could, at least, tell him. “I have magic, too,” she said.

Geralt peered at her, wounded eyelids softening. “I know,” he said. Triss’s own eyelids crinkled, confused. “That’s why you’re here with me.”

“Oh, prisoners, are we?” Triss asked.

Geralt nodded. “But I’ll protect you. They want something from us, but I’ll make sure they don’t hurt us. I think we only have each other.”

Triss sighed. “I’ll protect you, too. I promise.” She rubbed her eyes as Geralt wrung out the fresh towel. “As soon as I’m not bedridden, at least.”

Geralt’s mouth quirked, and it felt like an accomplishment.

“Oh! That boy!” Triss said, suddenly remembering. She tried to sit up, before thinking better of it. “That boy you were with, Julian? Does _he_ know where we are?”

“Don’t think so,” Geralt said, bringing the towel back to Triss’s skin. “I wish he was here. It’s been so quiet.”

“Is he loud?” Triss asked.

“Oh, yes,” Geralt said. “But in a good way. Everything’s loud to me, but he made the noise into something good somehow.”

Triss smiled. “Sounds like magic to me.”

Geralt drew back, considering, his face slack. “I suppose so,” he said after a moment.

“We all have magic,” Triss said, echoing something her mother had told her once. She warmed at the memory. “But everyone’s takes shape in different ways. And everyone is made to use it in one way or another.” She looked at Geralt carefully. “You are not the monster you think you are. Trust me, I know.”

She paused, then shakily drew the hem of her linen shirt down to her collarbone, exposing the scar she’d earned right before being sent to the newly captured Witcher School. Geralt winced as he gazed upon the waxy, charred, and healing skin.

“My...father tried to burn me before giving me up,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispered.

Triss nodded, blinking hard.

“That’s how I’m not a monster,” she said. “Because my magic helped me live. And yours did, too — that’s all it wants from us.”

Geralt sucked at his lip, gaze anchored to his knees. Triss released her shirt and closed her eyes.

“You really are nice,” Geralt said.

“I try to be,” Triss said gently. "I try to see people as they are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW descriptions:
> 
> \- a child is hit by an adult.  
> \- a child describes being burned by their parent, and reveals the scar that resulted from it.  
> \- descriptions of PTSD-related symptoms, such as guilt and flashing back.
> 
> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed, lovely humans :)
> 
> Tumblr: [glibli](https://glibli.tumblr.com/)


	3. Flotsams Caught in a Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonding moments as the kiddos age.......and jask finally changes his name, so i don't have to write "julian" anymore, thank god.
> 
> content warnings (see the end of the chapter for descriptions):  
> \- violent transphobia  
> \- violent homophobia  
> \- /very/ vague suicidal ideation

Since the Trial of the Grasses, the witcher who had survived the _incident_ had taken them both up to the administrators’ wing since it would hardly be used anymore, and informed Geralt of the circumstances at hand while Triss lay on the only bed in the whole of the wing, hardly making a sound.

The older witcher had sat him down in a chair once he could sit without falling over, and cleaned the wounds of ambiguous nature that he had supposedly suffered. The witcher had sighed while doing so. Geralt watched intently, trying not to focus on the sound of the witcher’s heartbeat, the rush of his breathing, the fluttering gasps of Triss in the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut. The room was dimly lit but the sparse light hammered wantonly into his eye sockets.

“Listen, lad,” the older witcher whispered. “I don’t know how to explain this, or if I should, but I’ll try.”

Geralt said nothing. His eyes were still cinched shut. He bracketed them with scraped fingers.

“You have magic,” the witcher continued. “More powerful than all of the humans here and they certainly hadn’t accounted for it when they gave you _more_ abilities. Once the grandmaster or the humans find out, they _will_ use you.” The witcher bent down. “It’s important you know this.”

Geralt sobbed quietly.

“No,” the witcher said, pressing harder than necessary on a cut over Geralt’s right brow. Geralt bit his cheek in pain. “Never cry. You understand? Your magic, and your enemies, will _feed_ on that, boy.”

Geralt opened his eyes, and lowered his fingers to peer at the witcher, who drew away and rubbed his forehead.

“I surrendered to the humans because I can’t help fledgling witchers while rotting in the cells of Kaer Morhen,” the witcher muttered. “It’s not my Path. And now, I see that you are yet another crossroads.” He wrung out his rag and turned to spread a salve over his fingers. “You are something unprecedented, and you will be a witcher unlike any other. You require individual training, but when the others find out that I’d kept you a secret, this place will be overturned. Your training will become even more necessary.”

Geralt felt tears rise up his throat, and swallowed them down. The other witcher’s mouth twitched as he applied the salve to a long scrape on Geralt’s cheek. “That’s more like it.”

The older witcher parted once Geralt’s injuries had been tended to, and stopped in the doorway when Geralt followed him.

“I’ll be back for your meals until both you and the lass heal,” the witcher said. “You'll tend to each other in the meantime. Since she's proof of the failed Trial,” he continued as Geralt bowed his head, “she must be kept here as well.” They put a gloved hand under Geralt’s chin. “Should you need anything, call my name, Vesemir, and I will come. Understood?”

Geralt nodded once.

“Good,” Vesemir said curtly. “Farewell.”

He left, shutting the door heavily behind him. And that was that.

The girl with a flower name recovered slowly under Geralt’s care, but he was happy to at least have something to do for a few days. Once Triss woke, Geralt had found himself in such a state of loneliness that he was actually grateful to hear another voice. He’d tried to sing the song Julian had sung to him while awaiting the Trial, but couldn’t remember the words, and barely remembered any of the notes. After talking to her about magic, she went back to sleep, leaving Geralt to ponder the essence of his own abilities.

Calanthe had never seen fit to acknowledge Geralt’s true nature. Not when he was nine, when he shaved half his head in a fit of rage, demanding to be seen as who he was. Not when he was ten, and he’d snuck away with his little sister, Pavetta, and told her his secret. Not when he was eleven, and had helped him get ready for his coronation.

“I will not have your hysteria here,” she’d said, tugging a corset shut viciously shut as Geralt shook with fury. “You’re the daughter of the Lioness. _Behave_ like it.”

“I am no one’s daughter,” he’d said susurrantly, rage falling into the whoosh of air leaving his lungs as his mother tied the laces taut. The murmurs of courtiers fluttered like ditsy moths against the doorframe, each one of them expecting a princess. A princess that would never, ever arrive. “I am not a _girl_ , I won’t dress like one.”

“If you’re not a girl, then you are a _beast_ ,” Calanthe hissed in his ear. “Is that what you want?” She cocked her head smugly as Geralt lowered his own. “You will grow out of this, Cub, or you will be dressed in something more fit for your kind. Understand?”

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut until his eyelashes disappeared into the folds of his eyelids. He bit his lip so hard he bled, and crimson dripped down his chin like a sip of wine. He opened his eyes, opened his mouth to draw a sharp, agonized gasp when he heard his mother’s nose crunch against his knuckles.

The coronation had been called off with little fuss. He had been sent to the Witcher Schools the next morning with a broken rib and vocal chords that refused to answer when he tugged on them.

Until Julian.

Until Triss.

What was different about them? What was different about how he felt about them?

Geralt contemplated all of this as he gazed into the murky tub of water he’d wet scraps of cloth with for Triss. He thought of her scar, and his broken rib. She sighed sleepily on the bed and adjusted her position so that she was laying on her side. Geralt covered his mouth thoughtfully, letting himself believe, for a moment, that he wasn’t a monster. Triss definitely wasn’t a monster, he could tell, and yet she had Chaos swirling within her, too. He looked at his hands, and the magic beneath his veins roused like a plant towards the sun. Before the Trial, he would have written this extension of his awareness off as emotion, but it was closer to him than his own thoughts: the one thing in him that was louder than the rest of the world. He shook his head.

“You…want me to live,” he said, swallowing thickly. “But are you right or wrong?”

The magic didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t.

“I just want to hear music again. Can you do that for me?”

Still nothing. Triss scratched her side in her sleep, and Geralt folded his opened palms against each other. He tried very hard not to cry, and squared his narrow shoulders determinedly.

His eyes blazed around their slit pupils, thin lines against the light of the secluded room. His hair caught the light until his head glowed like a summer day.

If his Chaos wanted him to be alive, he could at least try to be worthy of living. And if the world wanted him to be a tool, well, it was better than being a monster.

He walked to the door, careful not to wake Triss, and then shut it behind him.

“Vesemir,” he said. He didn’t feel the need to raise his voice above speaking; he was sure the witcher would hear him regardless. “I’m healed. I’m ready.”

The older witcher arrived not three minutes later, bearing a torch and a smile. He looked for all the world like a wolf who had swallowed the sun. Geralt extended his hand, crackling with Chaos, into the maw of everything he’d feared.

* * *

It was about four more months, almost a year since the failed Trial, and Julian had changed his name once more. And though his scars no longer hurt him in the night, he had new ones to speak of. He’d found out, with some solid growing experiences, that being called Dandelion didn’t earn him any favors from the other students. And Renfri had to pull him out of too many close calls in the backways of the keep to disagree with the logic.

“The pricks think there’s something wrong with being called a flower,” Renfri had said, hiding with Julian behind a rack of training dummies. Julian sniffed, nursing bruised knuckles and a fractured cheekbone. Nevertheless, he basked in Renfri’s protection. Months ago, he’d have never guessed that the two of them would become such good friends. Or even that Renfri would be willing to help him out of a sticky situation with some older, more _straight-laced_ trainees. He patted her hand, which also boasted fresh bruises, painted over her knuckles by other students’ faces. She smirked fondly at him.

“Careful, I might go thinking you care about me,” he teased.

“You’re an important asset,” Renfri said stubbornly. “Can’t have you going into battle against the fuckers who run this place already injured.”

“Um, hate to disagree, but…” Julian gestured to his already-swelling cheek and hands. Renfri tutted.

“ _More_ injured,” she clarified.

“Maybe Jaskier would be better,” Julian mused, fiddling with one of the arms of the dummies. It had splintered from brute force and hung by an obstinate ligature of wood. “For a name, I mean.”

Renfri looked at him. “You’re changing your name again?”

Julian shrugged. “Unless you have a better way of keeping students from thinking I’m some sort of...of _priss_. Or nancy. Or pansy.” Julian laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve heard so many since I’ve been here.”

Renfri touched his shoulder. She’d grown used to physical contact since becoming friends with Julian, likely out of necessity. Julian couldn’t think of another way to express companionship other than bear hugs, and it seemed to have worn Renfri down. Begrudgingly. “Those assholes don’t know anything. Don’t listen to them.”

“But they _do_ ,” Julian murmured, hiding his face in his knees. “They don’t know they know, but don’t they?” He knew he was babbling, and probably didn’t make any sense, but he didn’t _want_ to make sense.

“What are you saying, starling?” Renfri asked softly. The tone was too soft for her, didn’t fit her voice at all, but Julian couldn’t find it in himself to care. He laughed again, quietly.

“You know what I mean,” Julian whispered. “Don’t — please don’t make me say it, Fri.” Julian knew this was the end, it had to be. He knew his place in a Witcher School as…what he’d discovered himself to be was alone. Renfri wouldn’t be any different. For gods’ sakes, she’d have murdered him the first time they had met, if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’d had metal bars in the cells separating them. And only…liking? — appreciating? — boys was one thing, but more than boys, more than _girls_ was quite another matter. He didn’t know what he was. But the other children seemed to know, alright. Renfri sighed, not removing her hand on his shoulder. Julian tensed, ready.

“When I first came here,” she said, “I didn’t exactly fit the quota, either. I got called all sorts of names, even by the teachers. I didn’t know…how they knew, but, maybe it’s my charm.” She laughed. Julian looked up at her, eyes too moist for comfort. He swiped at them with a sleeved hand. Renfri held up a hand. “But I came here already used to it, so it didn’t matter. I know how to handle it.” She balled her fist. “Scare them, hurt them first, be prickly so they know they shouldn’t fuck with you.”

Julian rested his head against her. “I do like punching people. Who deserve it.”

“Well, then you’re in the right place,” Renfri laughed.

“I suppose I am!” Julian said. “I just wish they’d lay off sometimes, is all. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever do — accomplish what we’re training for.” He covered his face. “A witcher who…loves boys? I haven’t heard any stories about that. And there would certainly be stories.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Thanks to additional mutagens, Julian was able to hear the gentle thrumming of Renfri’s heartbeat, like a lute being played. He missed his lute — he’d had to leave it when he’d come to the Witcher Schools. A tune burbled at his lips, and he hummed quietly.

“Why Jaskier?” Renfri finally asked. Julian hummed two more notes and closed his eyes.

“It’s what my father called my cat. The one who was named Dandelion? Do you remember — I told you about the cat?” He sighed. “I think it’s the same word, just in a different language. And,” he sat up, smiling, “both my old name and Jaskier start with ‘j!’”

“Why does Jaskier start with a ‘j?’” Renfri quipped. “That doesn’t make any sense. It should start with a ‘y.’”

“What?”

“That’s how it sounds,” Renfri maintained. “Like a ‘y’ sound. That name is bullshit.”

“Is not!” Julian huffed. “It’s a good name.”

Renfri groaned, smiling, her teeth bared. They’d gotten sharper, due to her own additional mutations. “Fine. I’ll call you Jaskier, if you like it.”

Jaskier grinned and hugged her. “You’re a good friend.”

Renfri tried mockingly to push him away. “Am not! I am a fierce warrior, Jaskier! I stab people!”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, holding on like a particularly belligerent octopus, “you’re all of those things _and_ you’re still a good friend. Admit it, Fri! Admit you’re a good friend!”

“I’m a fed-up friend.”

“Ah, still a friend?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

* * *

“Jaskier,” came a low, raspy voice. “Jaskier, wake up, good gods.”

“Whaaaat…?” Jaskier whined, clutching his thin woolen blanket as he rolled onto his back. It’d been a couple of days and his cheekbone was still mending itself with no help whatsoever from the School’s infirmary — they’d healed too many of his wounds to offer more assistance. Which was fair. He sniffed, and the scent of fading dew told him it was still very early. Only Renfri would have the audacity to wake him before the lingering moisture on the grass outside had dissolved into morning. “Sleepingggg…” he said grumpily.

He sputtered as an Aard sent him slipping out of the rickety cot, yelping indignantly as he landed rear-first on the hard stone floor. “Hey — hey that’s not fair!”

Renfri leaned over the cot, looking at him silently. Her face, limned in the soft, cool light of a dawning day, fractured into a wide smile like a tide sliding apart from shore. It was a trademark Renfri smile that could only mean trouble. Jaskier snapped to attention immediately, adrenaline rocketing across his nerves like a derailed cart. His heart thudded heavily.

It was time, he knew: time for a new era, time for escape, for violence.

And finding Geralt.

“I’ll wake Eskel, you take Lambert,” he said.

They assorted their posse in short order, Jaskier disappearing into the next dorm to wake the burly older boy who’d been recruited shortly before Jaskier had. Jaskier didn’t know Eskel very well, but seemed friendly enough and woke quickly when Jaskier shook his shoulder.

They met at the bottom of the stairwell that led to the trainees’ quarters. The other students had already begun to wake, tossing questions back and forth to each other sleepily. A gong rang high and clear over the keep, washed in a dreary dawn’s light. Bells followed, their ripe, portentous voices cluttering the music of birdsong from the surrounding woods. Jaskier, Renfri, Lambert, and Eskel stumbled from the dormitory tower. They each held a weapon they’d smuggled from training and practices: Jaskier and Renfri both held a dagger in each hand, Eskel wielded a shortsword, and Lambert a longsword.

“No humans yet,” Renfri observed, shifting to hold both knives in reverse-grip. Her hair was even more wild than usual, but not nearly as much as her eyes. Her pupils flicked across the courtyard of the keep like hungry flame sputtering.

“Aye, good thing, too,” Eskel remarked. “Gives us an advantage if we catch them by surprise.” Jaskier paid attention to just enough of his lessons to know that the older boy was echoing something from a tactical class. Eskel smiled at him and he blushed, looking away.

“So how will we make our escape, grand orchestrator?” Lambert asked. “Clearly there are plenty of humans here to sharpen our blades on.”

Jaskier looked at him. Lambert was slimmer than Eskel, but about as tall and of the same age. His face seemed permanently twisted into a snarl, like a whipped wolf. Renfri grinned at him, not cordially in the remotest sense. It was more like a sneer, honestly. Jaskier felt lucky that he hadn’t managed to invoke a face like that from her.

“To the grandmaster’s office, like we talked about,” she said. “It’s in the administrator’s wing.”

They bounded across the courtyard, Jaskier and Renfri taking up the rear, as they were the smallest and wielded short-range weapons. They had gone over the plan for the collapse of the second upheaval of Kaer Morhen several times over the past months, but, to Jaskier, it had all seemed so theoretical. Now, with blood sledging through his limbs, much slower than it had two years ago, he felt every bit like a beast springing out of a cage. It was much different to hold the knives and run side-by-side with other children like him, putting actual use to the years of grueling combat training. He laughed, trailing the sound along with him like a ribbon as other students meandered from their dwelling places, not knowing what was going on. Renfri began to laugh, too.

“The school’s being overthrown!” Renfri yelled shrilly, holding one of her blades up to the dawn. “Get out of here while you can, you sons of bitches!”

“Or join us!” Jaskier added. “There’s no one guarding the armory, so get some weapons either way!”

It was like a match had been thrown onto a stack of hay. It took a few more strides of their group’s progress across the yard before chaos erupted into full-swing. Most of the older students had, at least, enough knowledge of threatening environments to quell the panic of the younger students, and funneled them into groups, each led by the eldest of them. Jaskier watched as a few of said older students ran alongside the four of them, and rammed against the armory door. It was mere moments before the bolt-locked door caved in with a crash of metal and wood.

“I wonder where the humans are,” Jaskier said as they neared the administrator’s tower.

“Where we’re going, probably,” said Lambert. “The witchers are probably headed to the faculty, and then the grandmaster, just like we are.”

“Remind me why we’re going there, then?” Eskel said. Renfri knocked the hilt of her left dagger against his side.

“Because I’ve got a chip on my shoulder,” she said as the four of them skidded to a halt, breathing heavily before the door to the wing. “And if the rest of the students — us included — have any hope of escaping,then we better make sure we’re not found again.” She glared at Eskel, challenging him. “ _Obviously_.”

Eskel threw his hands up, sword included. He was strong enough that he could do so without the sword wobbling in his grip with the motion. “Alright, alright, whatever you say, Shrike. We’re on the same team.”

“Good,” Renfri snarled. She then kicked open the door, knives aloft. “Now,” she said, face shining with pure adrenaline, “who wants to go in first?”

Jaskier stepped forward, posture low and ready. Both Eskel and Lambert stepped aside, making room for him. He took a deep breath. He could feel his eyes blaze.

“Let me,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning descriptions:
> 
> \- a trans character physical abuse from their parent explicitly because they are trans  
> \- a gay character endures physical abuse from their peers because they believe that they're gay  
> \- a character thinks that they are not worthy of living unless they are useful
> 
> thank you for reading!


	4. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which shit hits the fan.
> 
> there aren't really specific content warnings for this chapter!

Triss heard the gong sound once, then the bells chorus as she woke in the morning. Geralt was already awake — no surprise — and looking out the window. They’d both grown used to the new intensity of light in the months after the Trial, but it was still painful to gaze upon daylight; something must truly have been awry for Geralt to do so. Triss went to the window as well, yawning and staring into the dawn alongside her companion.

“What in Melitele’s name is going on out there?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep. Geralt turned to her, his eyes wide.

“I think…” he began, voice trembling. He opened his mouth again, but his voice seemed to have left him. Triss laid a hand on his shoulder, brow crumpling in concern.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think they — they found out about me, somehow,” Geralt whispered, “about the deaths, and now the witchers are going to fight the humans once and for all. Kaer Morhen is being sacked again. The witchers decided to take it back by force.”

Triss felt something tingle up her spine, something spider-like and nimble. She shivered, and all tiredness left her. She looked outside. “Your magic,” she said, still holding Geralt’s shoulder. “Do you think…Vesemir told them?”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Geralt said. “I don’t know, but…we have to wait for Vesemir to signal us. And then maybe we have to leave.”

They both watched as a cluster of human adults rushed to the base of their tower, hands glowing with Chaos. Geralt tapped the windowsill anxiously as Triss pulled her back into a ponytail, securing it with the ribbon she used for training to keep her curly hair from exploding into frizz. “Why do you trust Vesemir?” she asked gently, once her hair was in place. She went to pick up her sword, which she’d rested against the doorframe to their room. She eyed Geralt all the while as he bent over the rim of the window. He’d already buckled on his training armor and his own sword had been set against the wall at his side. His long hair had been braided clumsily, and he wore a loose headband to keep its strands from falling into his face. It was a familiar look to Triss.

She smiled fondly. There was no more training to be had, it seemed.

“He warned me that people would try to use me,” Geralt said. His voice crackled with anxiety. “And he saved me. And now it’s happening — they’ll use me, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“Geralt,” Triss said, “has it occurred to you that _this_ is what Vesemir has been preparing us for?” She padded back to her friend, placing a hand hesitantly upon the small of his back. Geralt knew her well enough by now to now she wouldn’t hurt him, but he still flinched a little at the contact from behind. “Sorry,” she added, drawing back.

“What do you mean by that?” Geralt asked. He didn’t sound quite angry, not yet, but something heavy had settled between his words. It was a familiar argument, the grooves in their postulations almost muscle memory since they had recovered from the Trial and begun their training under Vesemir’s individualized guidance. Triss sighed.

“Vesemir…warned you about being used, yes?” she asked, squaring her shoulders. “What makes you so sure he’s not using you? And today is the day that he’ll make good on everything he’s instilled in you, about being a tool, of honing your emotions— ?”

“No!” Geralt said sharply. “Now’s not the time, Triss!” It was the loudest she’d heard him speak, ever. His fists were clenched. “Even if he is using me, it’s better than being — being of no use, out of control, pure anger!”

Triss waited, sword held loosely by her side as Geralt closed his eyes and turned back to the window. “I _never_ want to feel that again.”

“I understand, Geralt,” Triss said quietly. “I promise, I understand, but—”

“Do you?” Geralt said venomously, regarding her with a hard amber gaze.

Triss stared him down. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

Geralt glared at her, then sighed. Months before, she would sure that he’d have melted into panic. But the training and the additional experiments on both of their bodies over the past months had worn on him.

“You have nothing to prove,” Triss murmured. She fought to keep her voice from rising, kept it low and level, but an ounce of desperation perforated the edges of her words. She bit her lip. “When we were still healing, when you were tending to me, you said we only have each other. Do you still believe I have you, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned over his folded elbows where they dug into the sill. “Yes.”

Triss smiled. “Then, please believe me when I tell you that you deserve more than just being of use to Vesemir, or anybody.” She lifted her sword to rest it upon her shoulder, and reached for Geralt’s hand. He didn’t draw away.

“Please, Geralt,” she said, “please, come away with me from this place. We can go free while everyone’s distracted, and we can live our lives. We’ll take care of each other.” She rested her head on Geralt’s, closing her eyes. “Please come with me. No one will keep me to use, I don’t know what will happen to me, so I have to go. But _please_ come with, Geralt.”

Triss felt Geralt’s fingers flex under her own, squeezing gently. She gasped, daring to think that maybe…

“Triss—” Geralt began.

It was testament to their anxieties that neither heard the sound of someone approaching their room, despite their enhanced senses. As soon as Triss’ name left Geralt’s lips, the door to their room burst open with a vicious rattling of its hinges. Both children flinched and turned reflexively to the intruder.

Vesemir stood in the threshold, a bloodied sword unsheathed and held against a charred thigh.

“You two must come with me now,” he said.

Geralt let go of Triss’s hand.

* * *

“Clear!” yelled Jaskier, moments after kicking a door jittering on its hinges. He slipped into the next corridor, followed shortly by Renfri, then Eskel and Lambert, who covered them. They slunk into the hall, spacing out so that Jaskier led with both Renfri and Eskel on either side.

“Have any of you been to the administrator’s wing before?” Lambert asked. “How do we know where to look?”

“I’ve been here,” said Renfri. “I know where the grandmaster’s office is — we just need to find it before any humans show up.”

“I’m more worried about the witchers,” said Eskel. “They’re out for blood, doesn’t matter if we’re in the way or not.”

“I don’t have time to deal with either!” Jaskier said, frowning at the stairwell ahead. His knives glinted in the torchlight like fangs, blades pointing down, held below his lowered head to guard his neck in the way he’d been taught. “I need to get to Geralt. He’s somewhere here, and I can’t leave him behind.”

“First the grandmaster,” Renfri said bitingly, “and _then_ your golden-haired boy, alright? If we don’t take out the grandmaster first, then he’ll just come after us once we get out of here, _and_ he’ll have the advantage.”

Jaskier shook his head, rounding the corner to bound up the stairs, two at a time. “I’m just worried he won’t be there, and there’ll be nothing to save.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Lambert said.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, stopping so abruptly that Renfri nearly bowled him over. He quickly righted himself while Renfri glared at him.

“What now?” she asked breathlessly, desperation lilting her voice so that it wavered like a windblown flag. Jaskier stared at her, eyes wide, shaking his head. Eskel grunted, watching the two stare at each other while Lambert yelled obscenities.

“We need to _move_!” he shouted, waving his sword like he meant to flag down a griffin. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Fri, I didn’t tell you,” Jaskier said, voice low and quivering, “that Geralt had golden hair.”

Renfri paced up and down her stair like a cat whose squirrel had shimmied up a tree.“You didn’t need to, Jask!” Renfri said. “I asked around about him, remember?” She glared at the ceiling, and Jaskier could hear her heartbeat droning out her voice, droning out his own, which felt incredibly steady despite his mounting disbelief. “Jaskier, we do not have the time for this! Let’s go!”

“I’m making time! Who’d you ask?” Jaskier said, knives shifting on their own in his hands. “Who did you ask, Renfri?” His voice caromed up the stairwell sickeningly, refusing to fade like an ache in his bones. Renfri stilled, her shoulders drawn as she looked at Jaskier, and as Jaskier looked right back. Tears welled in his eyes. “Who did you tell?” His voice fell between them, a dead thing.

Renfri shifted her knives so their hilts were exposed between her fingers, loosened her grip. “Jask—” she said quietly. “I — Jaskier I had to—”

“No,” Jaskier said, backing away and tripping a little. He watched, numbly, as Eskel put his head in his hand. Lambert watched shrewdly as Jaskier held his knives steady. “No, you’re the reason why the witchers are able to revolt like this! Why Geralt’s in danger, why we’re _all_ in danger! Selfish!”

“We were in danger before!” Renfri yelled. “We were _test subjects_ to people who don’t give a shit if we survived! We were animals, we were being hit and tormented and _whipped_!” She gestured to Jaskier, who stiffened still further.

“You’re right, but that’s not your risk to take, Renfri,” Jaskier said. He shook from head to toe, feeling as though he were about to molt into an entirely different creature. “You fed the grandmaster information, who killed all of those administrators. You told the witchers that there are less humans keeping them captive. We’re not going to kill the grandmaster, we’re going to use Geralt against your enemies.” Jaskier bit back a growl, or a sob. There wasn’t a difference. “I trusted you.”

“Jaskier,” said Renfri.

Jaskier lifted his chin. “Shrike,” he said.

And then he ran.

He ran past the echoes of his name, over the reverberations of the stone as the thunder of footfalls behind him crescendoed, nearly tripping his resolve. If nothing else, he was quick. He would outrun them, beat them to Geralt. Faintly, he felt tears canter down his cheek.

“Geralt!” he yelled once he reached the top of the stairwell. He knew it wasn’t wise to yell, but speed was paramount and he really had no clue where he would be held. If he was still alive. He shook his head stubbornly. “Geralt! It’s Julian! Where are you? Answer me!”

There was no response. He tore down the hall. “I’m here to get you out! Where are you? Please!” He listened as Renfri, Eskel, and Lambert reached the carpeted stone of the hall behind him. “You’re in danger! But I’ll help! I promise!”

He reached a door that was ajar — the only one in all the wing. His heart rose to his throat. “Are you in there?” he asked the door. He peered behind him, at the sneer of Lambert, Eskel’s resolved features, Renfri’s desperate face. Jaskier huffed and bowled into the room, closing it behind him and sliding a bolt lock into place just before he heard a pounding on the wood from outside. He cast a quick Yrden, and the purple light from the ruins melted into the stone.

“Jaskier, let us in!” Renfri shrieked.

Jaskier ignored her and turned to regard the room, knives ready, just in case. A bed sat in the far corner, a plain mattress stuffed with hay, and a thin sleeping mat rested on the floor beside it. The window panes were open to a sunny morning, and training equipment — a worn-out dummy, a blunt sword, and throwing knives — lay scattered around. A rag and opened bottles of cheap sword oil sat on the floor next to the dummy. Witchers-in-training had definitely been here at _some_ point. Jaskier swallowed.

“Geralt?” he asked quietly. There came no answer, save the racket that Renfri and the others were causing outside, vying for access like foxes. Jaskier sighed and lowered his knives, closing his eyes. He was awful at concentrating, but he summoned every ounce of stubborn tenacity that he possessed to hone his hearing to solely heartbeats. It wasn’t concentrating — it was being stubborn, he told himself. It was being the stubborn jackass he was.

Nothing. Nothing.

The world faded to a dull roar. The room wasn’t that big, but there _were_ definitely places a child of his size could hide.

He listened intently. And a faint, very slow heartbeat answered his silent plea.

Jaskier gasped, opening his eyes.

“Geralt!” he said. “It’s me! Please come out, I know you’re here!”

The heartbeat, now that he’d found it, didn’t seem to be emanating from anywhere in the chamber in particular. Jaskier tilted his head, nearly crying out from desperation.

“Do — do you want me to sing? Maybe that would prove — prove that it’s me?” he said.

He waited for a moment, half expecting Geralt to pop out from under the bed or the windowsill. But of course that didn’t happen. He cleared his throat. “I’ll sing your song, alright?” he said. “The one you liked.”

His voice wasn't in any condition to sound nice or pretty or controlled, but that hardly mattered right then. His hands shook as he began to sing, and he could practically see Renfri’s eyes roll as he pictured her outside the door. He shook his head, letting the melody engulf the room like a bird unfurling its wings.

“ _Kun mun kultani tulisi,_

_Armahani asteleisi,_

_Tuntisin ma tuon tulosta,_

_Arvoaisin astunnasta…_ ”

Jaskier’s voice broke beneath the strain of his anxiety as he waited, and heard the last of the song dissipate into the cacophony outside the door. The heartbeat continued, but he heard a mouth open, breathing tumbling out in fluttering sounds.

“What are you even going to do once you find him?” Lambert asked. “We’re blocking your only exit, dumbass!”

Jaskier sank to his knees, finally succumbing. “Geralt,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you before. I know you’re different, I don’t know what you did but I’ll do what I can to make sure they never use you.”

“You barely know him!” Renfri yelled from behind the door. “How do you know he doesn’t want to kill his captors?”

Jaskier didn’t answer, just sat there on the ground with his knives lowered to his thighs, jaw clenched. The light in the room flitted as a very tall tree outside palmed the morning light.

“Julian,” said a voice.

Jaskier’s head snapped up so quickly he heard his vertebrae grind against each other. “Geralt!” he said, leaping to his feet. “Is that you? Are you okay?”

A stone in the ceiling above shifted, then lifted up into the ceiling to reveal a young, freckled brown face. “No, it’s Triss,” said the girl from the Trial. Jaskier’s heart sank.

“Where’s Geralt?” he asked. “He was here, wasn’t he?”

Triss sniffled, and Jaskier could make out the girl’s puffy, cat-like eyes and reddened nose. “He was,” she said. “You need to run, Julian, or hide. It’s not safe here!”

“Not until I find Geralt!” said Jaskier stubbornly. “He’s in danger!”

Triss grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut. “I know,” Triss said helplessly. She dropped nimbly from the ceiling, landing with her knees bent. Her linen shirt and trousers were bloodied and Jaskier made out a bruise lining each elbow. Her ponytail had nearly fallen out, and her dark curls bounced as she righted herself.

She looked him in the eye, and Jaskier saw her hands shake. “He saved me,” was all she said.

Jaskier’s throat clenched around a sob. “They took him, didn’t they?”

Triss nodded. Jaskier sheathed his knives and reached for her hands, holding them steady; they trembled against his like a second heart drummed beneath her skin.

“I’ll get us out of here,” said Jaskier. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of here.”

“Okay,” Triss said.

Jaskier nodded once and led Triss to the door, still holding one of her hands. “Do you have a weapon?” he asked. “Wait, of course you do, you’re training to be a witcher, aren’t you? Where is it?”

“Gone,” Triss whispered.

“Okay, that — that’s okay,” Jaskier said, drawing one of his daggers and handing it to Triss. “Use this one, and get behind me. I’m not wounded — yet — so I’ll take the lead.”

“Thank you,” Triss said. “But, Julian, why’s it so quiet out there?”

Jaskier froze. She was right. He hadn’t noticed, but the desperate attempts of his former comrades outside the door had ceased altogether. Silence crawled into his ears — not even a heartbeat could be heard outside the door.

“That’s…good,” Jaskier faltered, “but…hmm, not good, really.”

“Must have been the mages,” said Triss quietly. “But how’d they take your friends out so quickly?”

The Yrden in the stone had begun to fade as Jaskier stepped toward it, Triss in tow. “They’re not my friends,” he said lowly, “but if someone got them, it doesn’t bode well for us, does it?”

“Not really,” Triss agreed.

Jaskier drew his knife, and Triss held hers in forward grip. The Yrden faded, finally, and Jaskier stepped up to the door, lifting the bolt lock. He gripped the door handle.

“On my count,” Jaskier said, raising his knife in reverse grip to guard his neck. “One, two…three!”

He popped the door open and jumped into the hallway, Triss following closely behind.

It was empty.

“The hell?” Jaskier asked the emptiness. Triss breathed out slowly as Jaskier peered up and down the hall.

“The hell indeed,” said a voice, what felt like inches from his right cheek.

Both he and Triss whipped around, but too late. The cloying scent of Chaos stiffened the air as they beheld the source of their disquiet.

The old man must have cloaked his appearance, must have muted his heartbeat so that fledgling witchers wouldn’t have been able to discern it. His beard seemed to crackle in the gloom as he gazed steadily at the two twelve year-olds, one long eyebrow raised.

Jaskier reared back, but each muscle had to sift through molasses. Triss seemed to be experiencing a similar phenomenon. She grunted in exertion while Jaskier bared his teeth.

“Bastard!” he yelled.

“Grandmaster Stregebor, at your service, young witcher,” said the man, who had the audacity to smile. “It’s a shame you're involved in this — in another world, you’d make a fantastic Viper.” He turned to Triss. “And you, lass, a fierce Wolf, to be sure.”

“Let us go!” Triss screamed.

“We don’t have anything you want, old man,” Jaskier told him.

“I’m afraid you do,” Stregebor said. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you go for the moment. Kaer Morhen is falling once more today, and I know you are responsible.” He lowered his voice, leaning forward towards the both of them. Jaskier could smell his breath, and scrunched his nose. “However, I can make your punishment less severe if you tell me where the child of the Elder Blood is.”

Triss stilled, and Jaskier tilted his head.

“The what now?” he asked.

Stregebor tutted. “The boy with the ashen hair.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said. “Well, it seems you’re out of luck! We don’t know where he is, O grandmaster supreme! So let us go!”

“Your friend seems to know,” Stregebor commented. Jaskier, with altogether too much effort, twisted his neck to look at Triss. Her cat-like eyes had blown wide. She peered away.

“I don’t know where he was taken,” she said. “All I know was that he _was_ taken.” Her gaze flicked down the hall to their left — something that neither Jaskier nor Stregebor missed. He smiled.

“And you will help me find him,” Stregebor said.

Jaskier had had enough. He flexed his hand, opened his palm. “With what?” Jaskier aked. “Our bloodhound noses? Did you think this through?”

Just as he’d hoped, Stregebor leaned still closer. “Shut it, boy! You can’t imagine how much power that child holds in his fingers! Once I get ahold of him—”

Two things happened at once. Jaskier’s Igni from his palm flared in a golden, blazing wink of flame, and Triss fell forward, hand outstretched toward the older man. Stregebor yelled as the flames fondled his cheeks and his beard and eyebrows caught fire. Some mysterious force also appeared to have rendered him gasping for air, seemingly unrelated to the shock of being on fire. Jaskier looked at Triss, lowering his own hand as she held hers in place. The scent of Chaos lingered, but wasn’t coming from Stregebor now. The spell that had rendered them unable to move no longer held them. Triss gazed steadily at Stregebor as he fell to his knees. Her hand shook.

“There’ll be more humans soon,” Triss said quietly. “Jaskier, there’s a tree outside the window.”

“We can climb it,” Jaskier said, finishing the line of thought.

“Yes,” Triss said. “I won’t hold this, so we only have a few moments. I won’t kill him.” She blinked at Stregebor. “I’ll release it in a second, so be ready.”

Jaskier nodded. He didn’t have the time right now to process, well, _any_ of this, so he decided to simply follow Triss’ wishes.

Triss sighed, hand shaking worse as Stregebor clutched at his throat, beard still crackling. It must have hurt. As Jaskier watched, he could have sworn he saw the small, uncertain tendril of a very small vine snake its way out of the grandmaster’s throat and into the torchlit air.

“On my count, now,” Triss said. “One…”

She held her forearm still as it shook maddeningly from the exertion that the spell must have taken.

“...two…” Jaskier grabbed Triss’ shoulder, readying her.

“...three.”

With an audible, almost static-like snap, Triss lifted her arm away from Stregebor. She sprinted with Jaskier into the room she and Geralt had shared. They reached the window, and with one glance back at the room, at the tower’s interior, at the human struggling to stand, Jaskier, and then Triss leapt into the boughs of the tree outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed, lovelies ! :)


End file.
